


While We Wait

by Battle



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battle/pseuds/Battle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dallas just wants to work on her thesis paper in peace, but two of her friends drag her to a convention the weekend before her paper is due. They confiscate her phone, giving her a walkie talkie to find them with, and pack her Star Fleet uniform so she can be the Bones to their Kirk and Spock. </p>
<p>Cue a friendly security guard, celebrity guests, and going home with a phone number written on a bar napkin. If this is how every weekend off campus will go, Dallas will leave more willingly next time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captive Audience

"You're both shit friends," she grumbles from the back seat.

"We're doing this for your own good," Whittney says from the driver's seat. "You need to take a fucking break."

"I have a paper due on Wednesday!"

"You never turn in anything less than perfect," she says. "You'll have three days to polish that bitch when we get back Sunday night."

Anna, who's been sound asleep since they dragged Dallas out to the car earlier that morning, snores a little and turns to face the window.

"See," Whittney says, "Anna agrees with me. You work too much, and play too little. This will be good for you."

"You're horrible, and I hate you."

***

Getting the three of them checked into the hotel is a little chaotic, mostly because Dallas refuses to cooperate on principle. She's grumpy from being woken at six in the morning and unceremoniously shoved into the backseat of Whittney's car, grumpy from having her phone confiscated for the weekend, and extra, extra grumpy after being told that being grumpy will play right along with the Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy cosplay they packed for her.

Any other weekend, and Dallas would be on Cloud 9, but she has a paper due in six days that's worth a significant portion of her grade in her "Vintage Media & Current Interpretations" class, and she still has the current part of "Current Interpretations" to dissect and analyze. She does not have time to be the Bones to Whittney's Kirk and Anna's Spock.

Once in their room, Anna takes over making sure everyone's uniforms are ironed and Whittney heads into the bathroom to touch up her makeup. Dallas sits in the corner, small messenger bag clutched in her hands, pouting and trying to figure out how to get out of the weekend when her two best friends went through all the trouble of driving them from Roanoke, VA to Philadelphia. Without her phone she's unable to call for help, but she'll also be unable to find Whittney and Anna if they separate in the convention center.

"How the hell am I supposed to find you without a phone?" she asks.

"We borrowed walkie talkies from the university AV club," Anna says, tossing Dallas a blue Starfleet uniform.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope. Now, get dressed!" Anna says, as she starts to strip off her own clothes to change.

Dallas eyes the dress.

"Did one of you pack my regulation boots? Because if you didn't..."

"They're in the bottom of your bag," Whittney says. "Under your makeup bag and the sense of humor you forgot to put on this morning."

Dallas sticks her tongue out at her friend, but does, slowly, begin to change. Once in her Medical Blue uniform, she searches her bag for her insignia pin, and stalks into the bathroom with her own makeup bag. She applies a light layer of powder, a flawless cat eye (the only makeup technique she can apply flawlessly), and mascara; she tops it all off with colorless Chapstick, which makes Whittney roll her eyes.

Anna takes Dallas's place in the bathroom mirror to apply her Spock ears with spirit gum, and Dallas plops down on the couch of their suite to pull her boots on. Whittney joins her, decked in her Command Gold dress and non-regulation ankle booties, and leans her religiously-worked-for platinum blonde head on Dallas's shoulder.

"We brought you because you work too hard, and conventions are your favorite thing ever. Plus, we put a little extra money into your ticket as an early birthday gift."

"You didn't have to," Dallas grumbles, unwillingly pleased despite not wanting to spend her weekend away from campus.

"We know, but you'll have a good time, and we'll get back to campus, and you'll be able to power through your paper with renewed vigor."

"Renewed vigor," Dallas snorts. "What word of the day calendar did you get that off of?"

"Fuck you very much," Whittney says cheerfully.

"Someone come help me with my wig," Anna calls from the bathroom, and Dallas rises to help her friend.

Anna, whose sharp undercut makes a great canvas for wigs, has glued her ears on properly, but has managed to put her wig on, in Dallas's view, sideways. She snorts out a laugh, and goes to help her friend, straightening layers, and pinning the wing into place with bobby pins and what little hair Anna does have.

"Time to go," Whittney calls.

Dallas and Anna exit the bathroom to grab last minute things, including the promised walkie talkies, and Dallas's small, purse-like messenger bag, and Whittney herds them out the door and down the hall into the elevator.

"We're leaving our phones behind in the hotel room," Anna says. "So you're not the only one going cold turkey."

"What if I want to take a picture?" Dallas asks.

"Buy a disposable at the corner store," Whittney says. "Now, c'mon. I want to hurry up and get in line."

"We literally have to cross the fucking street," Anna says. "Calm your tits."

"My tits will not be calm," Whittney says, causing funny looks from a group that joins them as they wait for the elevator.

Like Anna said, the convention center is literally across the street, and Dallas thanks whoever scheduled the event that they did so in late October because the line for admission has already been directed outside. Even still, Dallas regrets not applying more deodorant before leaving the hotel.

Their wait is surprisingly short. The registration desks, all twenty of them, Dallas notes when she's close enough to see them, are well run and traffic slides through smoothly. Whittney picks up all three of their passes as she bought them in her name, and ushers them towards the main vendor's hall and out of the way of everyone behind them.

"This is yours," she says to Anna, handing her a pass hung on a lanyard, "this is mine," she drops her over her own neck, "and this is yours."

The pass she hands to Dallas is different than the ones they're wearing, navy blue with gold lettering that presents her name and the title of VIP.

"You guys didn't have to do this," Dallas says, taking the lanyard.

"We wanted to," Anna says. "Happy early birthday."

"Thank you."

Dallas hangs the pass around her neck, twisting the fabric of the lanyard between her fingers.

"Alright," Whittney says. "Let's fucking go. We got actors to see and money to spend."

"Yes," Dallas says dryly. "Let's go add to the whopping piles of student debt we already have."

"Sounds like the best idea I've ever heard," Anna says, taking both of their hands and dragging them towards the masses waiting to be let into the convention.

At three p.m. sharp, the main doors of the vendor room open, and Dallas, Anna, and Whittney get swept into the crowd pushing forward.


	2. Whiskey, Bottom Shelf

Dallas gives Anna and Whittney the slip as soon as she can. She loves that they did this for her, because Whittney was right, conventions are her favorite thing, but she also has a knot of anxiousness gnawing at her stomach because she doesn't have this paper done. If they had just told her they wanted to go to the convention, she could have moved up her writing schedule, and been done with the paper two or three days ago... but prudent planning has never been a skill of Whittney's and Anna has always been a go-with-the-flow kind of person, and that makes Dallas wonder how this hasn't happened before. So she gives her friends the slip, and slinks away to find a corner where she can go over the copy of her paper she printed in the library the night before. She even has her lucky green pen with her. 

Wandering away from the masses that have descended upon the Philadelphia Convention Center, Dallas finds a stairwell that's been left unlocked, so she slips in and takes a seat about half way up to the next floor. She pulls out her paper, and her lucky green pen, and she tries her best to concentrate, making notations in the margins and writing whole new paragraphs on the blank backs. She doesn't know how long she sits there before a polite cough startles her into slashing green ink through several sentences.

"What - ," when she looks back, an older woman in a security shirt is on the landing above her.

"Do you need help with something?" the woman asks.

"No," Dallas says. "I, um, am I not supposed to be in here?"

"Not really."

"Sorry," she says, gathering her papers. "I can go."

"You sure you're okay?" the woman asks, concern coloring her voice.

Dallas sighs.

"My friends surprised me with this trip by waking me up this morning and driving five hours to Philadelphia, but I have a thesis paper due on Wednesday, and it's not done, and I was just trying to work on it some because it's really freaking me out, and this is worth a good chunk of my final grade, and -,"

"Woah, woah, woah," she says, descending the stairs so she and Dallas are on equal footing, even though the security guard is a few inches taller than Dallas. "Calm down. You've got a paper due, but your friends dragged you up here?"

"I love conventions, I really, really do, but I also really want to be done with school, and that means not having to repeat this class."

"I know how you feel," the woman says motherly. "I never thought I'd be done with school when I was working on my degree." She sighs. "Tell you what, you can come upstairs to sit in the quiet if you promise not to be a pest."

"Is that okay?" Dallas asks.

"It will be if you tell them I told you you could. My name's Doreen."

"Dallas."

"What's your major, Dallas?" Doreen asks, motioning for the younger woman to follow her back up the stairs. 

"My bachelor's is in English, with a focus in creative journalism, and women's studies. This thesis paper is for my Master's in Comparative Media."

"That," Doreen says, opening a door for Dallas, "sounds really fancy."

"It's really just a pretty way of saying my Master's is going to be in the development of media and the patterns we as a society inevitably repeat."

"Fancy," Doreen says again.

The room Doreen has led her to is set up like a lounge with a few couches and cafe tables scattered about. It's large, and obviously not intended for relaxation for any extended period of time, but it's a nice set up. 

"You can sit here for a while if you're quiet. Anyone gives you slack about it, you tell them I said you could sit here because you felt sick."

"Thank you, Doreen, so much."

"Don't be a pest," she says kindly. "I'll be in and out as the day goes on."

"Thank you."

"Sure thing, kiddo."

Dallas sets her bag down at a table, and starts to pull out her papers again.

"Hey, Doreen?" she calls before the woman has a chance to leave. 

The woman turns to look back at her.

"What was your major?"

Doreen grins. "Astrophysics."

***

There are several groups of people that pass in and out of the lounge over the next few hours, but Dallas pays them little mind, too focused on trying to analyze data and media platforms from memory. She'll have hours of fact checking to do once they get back to campus, but at least most of the writing will get done.

At what Dallas judges to be about six o'clock, her walkie talkie chirps, and that startles her out of her academic haze. She roots around the bottom for her bag for the thing, and has to look it over twice before she finds the transmission button.

"Can I help you?"

"Dr. McCoy, this is your Captain speaking. Mr. Spock and I were wondering if you'd like to join us in the mess.  And say over when you're done talking so I know you're done. Over."

"Food sounds good. _Over_."

"Meet us in the transporter room, Dr. McCoy. Over."

"You mean the front doors? Over."

"Yes, the front doors, you dickhead."

Dallas waits, mouth turning up in a grin. The walkie talkie chirps again.

"Dallas?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Captain. Were you done? You didn't say over. Over."

"Get the fuck down here. Over."

"I'm coming. Over."

***

 

"I'm glad we changed," Anna says. "Those ears were starting to itch."

"I was tired of guarding my skirt," Whittney says bitterly. "If one more asshole tried to "hey, cadet" me... Did I look like a fucking cadet? Was I wearing Expendable Red? I don't fucking think so."

"What did you do?" Anna asks Dallas, who has remained silent in the retelling of her afternoon.

"Wandered around some. Found a quiet place to sit when the noise was a little much."

"I packed my migraine meds if you need some," Anna offers.

"Thanks."

"Okay," Whittney says. "Which bar are we going to?"

"How about that one?" Anna says, pointing across the street.

There isn't a sign lit up outside, but there is a guy that looks vaguely like a bouncer leaning near the door and smoking a cigarette.  Whittney shrugs, and heads across the street, Anna and Dallas following.

"You guys got the room?" she asks, pulling her own pack of cigarette's out of her back pocket.

"For three beautiful ladies like yourself? We got all the room in the world."

Whittney hands Anna, who has quit several times, a cigarette, then offers the pack to Dallas.

"No, I'm gonna get us some seats," she says, pulling the door open and basking in the air conditioning.

"Alright. We'll be in in a few."

The inside of the bar is dimly lit and a little cramped, meant for intimate conversation, and very unlike the dance-crazed clubs Whittney and Anna usually preferred. Dallas finds herself comfortable with the dark wood and slightly sticky floors, and she agrees with Anna's statement that they're better off having changed into jeans and t-shirts. 

"What can I get you for?" the bartender asks.

"Whiskey, bottom shelf, neat."

"Yes, ma'am."

Dallas leans her forearms on the bar as the bartender turns to fix her drink. When he sets a glass in front of her, she picks it up, throws it back, and motions for another.

"Make this one a double, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

New drink in hand, Dallas edges over to the end of the bar and hops up on a stool. The last drink warmed the back of her throat, but this one she sips at, unwilling to dive head first into alcohol poisoning so early on in the weekend. She waits, and she waits, and she's down from three fingers of whiskey to two, and Whittney and Anna still haven't come in from their cigarette break. Willing to take a chance, and much more relaxed than she was at the beginning of the day, Dallas pulls out her thesis paper and her green pen, and starts to go over the notes she's made in the dim light of the bar.

"Another round for the table in the back," a rough voice says to her right. Dallas looks up at a familiar face, and a pair of striking blue eyes glancing her way. "And whatever she's having."

"I don't need another," Dallas says, "but thank you."

"No problem," the man says, stepping a little closer. "You've been working on whatever that is all day; I figured you might want one."

Dallas leans back slightly.

"You were in the lounge all afternoon," he says, "at the convention center."

"Were you?" Dallas asks, honestly curious.

"Yeah," he laughs. "You didn't notice us coming in and out?"

"I've been a little busy," she says, motioning towards her stack of papers.

"Chris Pine," he says, as if he had the need to introduce himself.

"I know," Dallas says. "Dallas."

"Like the city," he comments.

"Like the Outsider," Dallas counters. 

"Even better," he smiles.

"I like to think so," she smiles.

"Dallas, let me take this back to my table," he says as the bartender approaches with a tray of drinks. "Then maybe I can come back and we can talk about what you're working on?"

"If you want," she says casually.

"I do," he smiles.


	3. Girl Got Game

"Stop," Anna says, throwing her arm out to keep Whittney from stepping farther into the bar.

"What?"

"Corner of the bar," Anna says, thrusting her chin forward.

From the door, Anna and Whittney can see Dallas leaning on her elbow at the far end of the bar. They can also see the smile she's giving the man that's sat down next to her. He keeps running his hand through his hair, but he never turns away from Dallas, and Dallas only looks away when she laughs so hard she covers her face with her hands.

"I think we should blow this popsicle stand, and not spoil our girl's game," Anna says.

"I completely agree. Let's find a bar with loud music and liquor that tastes like Christmas and vomit," Whittney says.

"Sounds like Heaven."

Both of them back out of the door, wave to the bouncer who was going to let them in, and head towards the downtown area. Whittney pulls her walkie talkie out of her purse, pushes the transmission button, and speaks into it.

***

"Paging Dr. McCoy. Dr. McCoy, please respond. Over."

Dallas's shoulders tense as her walkie talkie chirps softy from her bag.

"I have to take this," she tells Chris, hoping her face isn't as red as it feels.

"Dr. McCoy?" he laughs.

"Shut up," she grumbles, grabbing her walkie talkie and moving away from the bar. "What the fuck do you want?" she hisses into the receiver.

"Mr. Spock and I observed quite the connection between yourself and a very handsome crew member, and advise you that we are moving on to other establishments and will meet you back at the ship," Whittney says in her Captain's voice. In her normal voice, she says, "At least, he looked handsome from the back. Hope he's just as pleasing from the front. Over."

"You're a horrible human being," Dallas radios back. "I'll see you back at the hotel later. Don't get too smashed. Over."

"Orders received and understood. Don't do anything we wouldn't do. Over."

Dallas waits a few moments for her face to cool off before moving back over to the bar.

"Is that a long range walkie talkie?" is the first thing Chris asks.

"This trip was a surprise for my birthday, and my friends confiscated my phone so I couldn't work on my paper, but they didn't know I had a physical copy," Dallas sighs.

"Well, Happy Birthday."

"Thank you, but my birthday isn't until January, and when I say surprise trip, I mean they woke me up at six o'clock this morning like there was an emergency, shoved me into the car, and we left campus."

"Campus where?" Chris asks, leaning more heavily into the bar.

"Hollins University in Roanoke, VA."

"I don't think I'm familiar with that college."

"Probably because it's a private women's college," Dallas says. "I don't think they even let men past the front gate."

"I wouldn't, if it were up to me," Chris says, and Dallas laughs.

"I'd ask what you were doing here, but..."

"It's a little obvious, yeah," he laughs.

"Are you having an okay time?"

"It's alright. We come because of the fans, but that's also kind of why we wish we could stay away. But overall, we really appreciate the people that are willing to come out and see us."

"I can't imagine," Dallas says. "Conventions are my favorite things; I love them, but I can't imagine the pressure that puts on you. I mean, I get to come in without expectations weighing me down, and you guys...."

"Sounds like you have a pretty good idea," he sighs.

"Let's not talk about the convention," Dallas says lightly.

"What's your paper on?" Chris asks almost immediately.

"This is my thesis paper for my "Vintage Media & Current Interpretations" class."

"What vintage media did you pick?" he asks curiously.

"Star Trek," Dallas says bashfully.

Chris laughs.

"My mom raised us on it, you know? My sisters and I have been watching every bit of Star Trek we could get our hands on since we were in the cradle; it's always been special to us."

"It's a special show, that's for sure," he says softly.

"What's your favorite part of it all?"

Chris's eyebrows do a strange dance before he says, "I don't know that anyone's ever asked me that before."

"What do they ask you?"

"What it's like to be famous, or to know other famous people usually."

"Being famous seems like a pretty invasive lifestyle," Dallas says. "I mean, all your dirty laundry gets hung out on the line for everyone to see."

"That's one way to put it," he laughs. "But, I guess... I guess my favorite part is telling new stories. We get to take this great thing that's so loved, and we get to ask "what if this happened" or "what would they do if they were thrown into this situation". It's amazing, but at the same time, it's terrifying, because what if we get it wrong?"

"I don't know if there is a "wrong" with Star Trek," she says thoughtfully, "just a story from someone else's point of view."

 

"I like the way you think," says a voice from behind Dallas, causing her to jump away from it and bang into Chris.

 

Chris steadies her by the elbows, and says, "Simon! Not cool!"

 

"Sorry, lass, I thought you heard me coming," the new man says sincerely. "Simon Pegg."

 

"Dallas Owen," she says, still trying to calm her rapidly beating heart.

 

"Dallas like the city?"

 

"Like the Outsider," Chris says. "How often do you get that question?"

 

"Frequently," Dallas says, sliding back onto her bar stool. "It's nice to meet you, Simon."

 

"Nice to meet you, too, Dallas. I just came over to see what was holding up Chris here, and lucky for us it's a beautiful young woman."

 

"Lucky for us?" Dallas asks.

 

"We though maybe he'd been haranged again, and was too polite to leave the conversation."

 

"Does that happen often?" Dallas asks, repeating Chris's question back to him.

 

"It was one time!" Chris insists.

 

"It was at least three, and that's just when I've been there," Simon says. "But, since that's clearly not the case, I'm going to return to my pint."

 

He gives them both a salute, pushes off the bar, and heads back to the table he came from.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know Chris Pine, or his habits, or opinions. This is a complete work of fantasy and fiction.


End file.
